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Time would fail us to speak, as they deserve, of Comus, that finest compound of the pastoral and the play, with its high moralisings and Shaksperean imagery; of L Allegro and H Peiweroso, with their delicious contrast and dancing measures; of the Hymn on Christ's Nativity, which, slow and solemn as a charmed river, moves around the awful sanctities of its theme; of Lycidas, wailing so melodiously over
"That fatal and perfidious bark,
of the Sonnets, rising in climax, from the rugged simplicity of those of Cyriack Skinner, up to the grand swelling peal (as of a Sonnet soaring out of itself into some higher form of verse) of that On the late Massacre in Piemont; or of his graceful Greek, Italian, and Latin verses and versicles. We have not said enough to exhaust our own admiration, but we have pointed again—with however feeble a finger—to fountains of song which no impurity defiles, and which are as fresh and full this hour as when they were first opened by the hand of the Master-spirit.
"Blessings be with him, and eternal praise!"
„ IV 50